


Teeth and Nails

by tattletwink



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Kissing, UST, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattletwink/pseuds/tattletwink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal’s admiration for Will came naturally, Abigail earned hers. </p><p>AKA </p><p>What ever happened to Abigail Hobbs? A one-shot dealing with what happened to Abigail in the season one finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth and Nails

“I never wanted to see you like this, Abigail.”

 

There is almost a ghost of feeling, but the words are distant compared to the puncturing sounds of incisions previously crowding Abigail’s inner ear.  Staccato beats of pain had blossomed so excruciatingly that it is several minutes until she registers that she can still hear at all.  

 

Abigail bites her tongue to ease the pressure on her jaw, aching from being clenched tightly during the procedure. She feels as though the right side of her head has pushed into a heap of embers. It is no small feat that she is still conscious.

 

She doesn’t reply, concentrating instead on sounds of her wheezing, panicked breathing instead. It’s deafening in the empty house. 

 

Lying on the floor of her kitchen with Hannibal’s hand heavy on her neck, Abigail wills herself into taking deeper breaths. Her tears flow freely, but she resolves to stay watchful despite her agonizing condition.

 

“I know I will often think back on how I may have done things differently, how I might have protected you more thoroughly from this world we inhabit. I regret that my actions were insufficient to maintain your safety.” He brushes damp strands of hair from her face, fingers lingering at her temple, brown eyes unreadable.

 

Hannibal speaks to her with the casual detachment of an immortal, more intrigued by her degradation than any tendency towards compassion. Abigail wants to scream, but she doesn’t dare push the limits of his leniency. The scalpel afforded her more freedoms than his hand does now.  She watches them both now, trembling.

 

Stay in his good graces, be obedient. Maybe he will find satisfaction what he’s taken.  Her own encouragements sound gaudy and pathetic in her head, but she clutches them to her breast with religious conviction.

 

Hannibal gazes at her prostrate figure with admiration, her carotid pulse like a hummingbird beneath his fingers. Inward reflection tells him his reluctance to kill Abigail is authentic, if not exactly humane in origins.  However, self preservation must precede any protective inclinations, regardless of their potency, towards the young Shrike.    

 

Moving from her side, Hannibal straddles her torso with ease, removing his hand from her neck.  Lifting the limp scarf from her neck, a vivid indigo and magenta number, he cuts at the fabric with the scalpel with deft swipes.

 

Her chest rises and falls beneath him and despite her fear her light blue eyes hold his. The scalpel almost nicks her twice. She doesn’t flinch.  Hannibal pulls of her scarf, tossing it aside.

 

Abigail has to remind herself that this is actually happening, not a dream. Her heart is a jack rabbit beneath the tacky cling of her blood stained blouse. The smell of the antiseptic makes her nose sting and barely covers the metallic scent of her own blood clotting in her hair.  Not for the first time tonight, she feels her stomach turn in nausea.

 

She distracts herself with more empowering nonsense. Give him what he wants, but not an inch more. As if she has a choice in the matter. She’d choke out a bitter laugh if she didn’t think he’d join her.

 

“You are a beautiful girl, Abigail. I should have liked to watch you grow into a young woman.” There is a moment of reverence as his eyes comb over her petite figure.  She is every ounce the lithe teenager beneath him, thin and delicate, absent are the softened features of a woman grown.  Hannibal is intrigued by the curious absences that characterizes youth as his gaze travels along her modest bust to her thin, young face.

 

Under his appraisal, Abigail wonders if she can lure him. If she can be the seduction and the slaughter as her life now depends on it. He’s older than her, but she has little doubt of her appeal.  It’s not a question of attraction, but of one appetite surpassing another, she thinks darkly.

 

Hannibal stares at her, deep in thought, before placing a hand by head to lean over her figure. Abigail makes a show of being unaffected by the increased proximity.

 

He dips his fingers into the blood at her side, delicately smearing it on her lips with the pads of two fingers. It’s a weak substitute for lipstick, dark and messy against her pale complexion.  But if he squints, Hannibal can see an older Abigail, one who survives to mature into a dark and dangerous creature.

 

In different circumstances, Abigail could have been the daughter Hannibal would have been proud to introduce into high society in public and tutor in sordid matters in private. There is a cunning in Abigail that is absent in Will. Despite his fondness for the latter, Will was born with his gifts whereas Abigail garnered Hannibal’s attention through survival. Hannibal is not so foolish as to not admire the feat of her continued existence.

 

The loss of his young protégé will hurt him deeply in time. Though not now. Not in this final moment together.

 

A pink tongue ventures the corner of her mouth, tentatively tasting the metallic offering. Hannibal watches the motion with rising intensity. Her sultry embrace of her own defilement stirs something inside him akin to lust. She sweeps her tongue along her lips, wetting the tacky coating to a sickening shine. The taste is almost enough to make her retch, but she suppresses the urge.

 

It’s a tease and Abigail isn’t sure if it will work, but she moves her hand closer to his knee, tensing, still too fearful to go further.

 

She can’t tear her eyes from his, despite his distraction. Abigail might love him in some fucked up way, she might want to drag a hunting knife along his sternum to see if he tastes as good as he looks, and she might want him to teach her how hide in plain sight, to hunt amongst hunters. Desires flare and fuzz in her mind and her tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth.  Staring is the only thing in her control, so she does it.

 

If he kills me he’ll have to look me in the eyes when he does it, Abigail thinks, defiance simmering in the haze of pain.

 

“I’m afraid this is farewell, Abigail.” Hannibal says quietly, his voice deadly even.  She can see Hannibal’s moving his hand closer to her throat, feel the air around her neck electric with the presence of scalpel.

 

Abigail can feel half a sob in her throat, instead she cracks a small smile, her skin tight under her tear tracks.

 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?” She rasps, feeling the consequences of her prior screaming for the first time. The damage makes her voice lower, stripped of its youth and buoyancy.

 

Hannibal looks at her and he is struck for a moment. An unknown expression flashes before her eyes, though she feels as though it could have been anything, she senses it to be a certain tenderness.

 

“If you insist.” Hannibal strokes her face gingerly, before leaning in slowly to kiss her.

 

She ignores the throbbing in her jaw, the constant thrum of agony from where her ear once was, the blood on her lips, and her aching body.  Abigail wraps a weary hand around Hannibal’s neck, raising herself an excruciating inch to meet his mouth, her tongue meeting his in an intoxicating display of hunger and desperation. Her nails prickle along his skin, digging too deep to be misconstrued as an affectionate gesture.

 

Her lips are coppery and chapped on his. Hannibal sucks on her bottom lip before nipping her sharply, drawing unwilling moans from her throat. Despite everything, she is soft and yielding beneath him, kissing him as deeply as possible, biting back with sharp canines.

 

Using his left hand, he braces the back of her neck as she eases her upward. Abigail moans into the kiss, the pain must be exquisite, he thinks. The scalpel is still in his right hand and if he cuts just so everything will work accordingly.  Hannibal’s eyes flicker to the counter across from room. This angle will suffice.

 

Abigail kisses him deeply and Hannibal can feel fresh tears begin streaming down her face. Hannibal is patient and knows she will kiss him for as long as he permits so he indulges her for as long as possible. Eventually she pulls away from him, face chapped and lashes wet and she looks at him with the bravest face she can muster, her mouth set in a firm line, sniffling only once.

 

Hannibal, above all things, is selfish. He luxuriates in the best of life, a connoisseur of cuisine, music, and people. Before him Abigail is a vision of the rarest kind, a young mind so capable for greater things, for achieving the same elegant ferocity Hannibal exudes in his pursuits, and despite his urge towards self preservation, he can’t bring himself to end such a exceptional opportunity, not with certainty.

 

Abigail cannot go free, not as she is. Hannibal must find a compromise.

 

He brings the scalpel to her neck, she feels the prick of her skin and a fat blood drop wells onto the blade. She shivers and Hannibal leans inward to whisper in her left ear.

 

“There are some bandages beside you. If you survive, I want you to come visit me in five years time. If you arrive earlier, I will kill you without hesitation. Stay away from the news, little Shrike, or I will find you.” He murmurs into her ear and she nods her head shakily. “I am sorry.”

 

The knife tears at her throat once more and Abigail screams, blood spraying across the cabinet in a sickening déjà vu. She grabs for the bandages and presses one to her neck, staggering to her feet. The incision is shallower than her father’s initial cut, so though it provides a similar spray Abigail is nowhere nearly as incapacitated as she once was.

 

Abigail feels unsure on her feet, grasping a wall for support. Hannibal watches her as she staggers away, never turning her back on his figure. She retrieves the scrap of her scarf, tying it tightly over the bandage before stumbling out of the room.

 

Hannibal thinks she sees gratitude in her eyes, or maybe even a promise. Though he cannot distinguish it, he isn’t unsettled by in the least. Abigail and him have a very particular connection and should she survive this experience, he looks forward to exploring it more deeply.

 

Hannibal is finally alone in the kitchen, Abigail’s departure signaled by the slam of the screen door.  He picks up the delicate shell of Abigail’s ear, placing it in a plastic bag. The clean up is quick and soon he is satisfied with the scene.

 

Hannibal looks forward to visiting Will and as he steps out of the house wonders if he’ll ever meet Abigail again. Deciding he will, his demeanor is considerably lifted and he endeavors to smile to himself. 

 

Truly, he is a charitable father. 

 


End file.
